Firelight

People complain that my poems have too much water.

Fine, then. No tears, no oceans, no rivers to be crossed;

No drowning or wading or crying. No water at all.

Let me instead write about fire.

It began with a spark, you see.

A warmth. How comforting it was.

It came with a glow that framed your face.

(Will you tell me a story, in this firelight?)

The warmth was as gentle as you were.

Let me reiterate that it began with a spark.

Then the flames consumed me, hellfire all the same.